


(Love)rage

by Nanimok



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Blackmail, Bottom Connor, Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Dark Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Dom/sub Undertones, Dubcon Cuddling, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Gun Kink, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Human Markus (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Manipulation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, Poor Connor, Porn With Plot, Possessive Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Protective Hank Anderson, Rimming, Soft Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 13:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: It’s widely accepted that the Manfreds’ knowledge of the art trade is unparalleled. Markus himself has helped with many cases of art theft. Quite clever, in Connor’s opinion. What better way to stay ahead of your hunters, and disintegrate any evidence left behind.Because what Connor knows—what he’s dying to prove—what everyone refuses to believe him, his traitorous mind whispers—is that Markus Manfred, proposed angel on earth, is also the head of Detroit’s biggest crime syndicate:Jericho.





	(Love)rage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimoru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimoru/gifts), [tiredcreecher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredcreecher/gifts).

> First of all, this fic wouldn't have been possible without [feriswheel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feriswheel/) who is my amazing beta and I'm so glad I stole her from [ joyeuseful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyeuseful/pseuds/joyeuseful) because I'm so tempted not to give her back..... jk. She decides where she wants to go (She's the boss)
> 
> Secondly, thank you to [ Mimoru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimoru/) and [peixe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peixe/) who encouraged my thirsting!!! Then [ joyeuseful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyeuseful/pseuds/joyeuseful), [ Magic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MahoShoujoEren/), [Zalein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zalein), and [ Sharn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smiley_anon) for all the cheerleading. I love you all so much. This fic possessed me.

Markus Manfred is an enigma, one Connor is determined to solve.

He’s Detroit’s own local philanthropist, the adopted son of veneered painter Carl Manfred. He's a business owner, and a gallery curator. He's a man of many trades. He’s a respected member of the Detroit community.

It’s widely accepted that the Manfreds’ knowledge of the art trade is unparalleled. Markus himself has helped with many cases of art theft. Quite clever, in Connor’s opinion. What better way to stay ahead of your hunters, and disintegrate any evidence left behind.

Because what Connor knows—what he’s dying to prove—_ what everyone refuses to believe him_, his traitorous mind whispers—is that Markus Manfred, proposed angel on earth, is also the head of Detroit’s biggest crime syndicate:

Jericho.

Countless sleepless nights have been dedicated for the cause. Jericho treads the fine line of working with and against the public. Monopolising loyalty, if Connor has to describe it. They’ve got a hand in almost every underground business one can think of; money laundering, drug trafficking, art theft, murder, extortion, stock manipulation, corruption, and labour racketeering. Yet, they draw the line at human trafficking, as if they have principles and morals on the manner. 

Connor can’t deny, however, that the money is being poured into the lower socio-economic neighbourhoods of Detroit. The wealth is distributed, which is possibly the most surprising aspect about it all—as if Jericho actually _ cared _about the well-being of the community.

One good does not undo a million wrongs, but it’s not like most of the DPD is any more innocent than they are. There are whispers that they’re nothing more than uniformed thugs, working for a system that unashamedly protects the wealthy and dirty-handed instead of the public. It doesn’t matter that Connor wishes to change it; the status quo is as it is and he’s still reinforcing it. His hands are incriminated every time he clips his badge to his belt.

Maybe it’s why he’s so insistent in uncovering Jericho. Prove that there _ are _differences between them—differences that matter—and that Connor’s on the right side, doing the right thing, for the right people.

“Connor. Shit, kid,” Hank says, when Connor doesn’t look away from his computer screen. “You need to let this go. It’s eating you alive. I’ve seen other cops go through the same obsessive patterns you’re falling into, and it never ends well for them.”

Resembling a raccoon is hardly falling into an obsession in Connor’s opinion. “I just need a little more time, Lieutenant,” Connor says, his fingers typing at a speed even light would envy. “His record is spotless, but suspiciously so. There’s something there. I can feel it. I’m so close to it.”

“And if anyone asks why you’re digging in places where you shouldn’t?”

“You’re assuming that I’d get caught in the process,” Connor says. “I, to put it simply, won’t. I know what I’m doing.”

Hank sighs, lifting the folders on Connor’s desk. “It’s not just about skill, Connor. It’s also about luck. All it takes is one moment where you get unlucky and it’s over.”

“That risk is already typical of our profession. I don’t see why it should start influencing our choices more than before.”

“And what you’re going to tell Fowler when he comes here and asks why you’re neglecting all these cases?” Hank waves the folders in front Connor’s monitor. “He’s been in a crappy mood since the last Jericho bust ended up being a dud.”

Connor has the sinking suspicion that Fowler’s in the same boat as Jericho, and he knows Hank harbours the same thought as well. It’s just one of those things you don’t talk about around here. Another messy corpse to be swept under the rug.

“You can be rest assured that I’ll have it done by tomorrow.”

“By sleeping in the station to do it? Shit, son, you’ve got a problem.”

“And alcoholism isn’t?”

“At least I keep that shit at home,” Hank says, like it’s any better. “And I’ll have you know, I’ve been cutting down. So you can stop your nagging before you even start.”

Connor bites down on his smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant. I’m proud that you’re finally working through your problems like a proper adult.”

“Oh, ha-ha Fuck you, too,” Hank says with no heat. “I’m about to head off to Jimmy’s and grab some lunch. You coming or what?”

There was a time where Hank would have rather died than be caught anywhere near Connor during his spare time.

Connor’s good at wearing people down, though. It’s part of his charm.

“I will pass on this offer,” Connor says, feeling ridiculously touched. “Although… I seem to have overpacked myself lunch.”

Connor slides out his cubicles. He brings out two boxes and places one in front of Hank. He tilts his head at him expectantly.

Hank scrunches his face before he grunts in defeat. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

He does. “I think of no such things,” Connor says pleasantly. “But you know I would hate for the food to go to waste.”

“Then stop buying so much at the groceries.”

“I’m a natural overachiever, Hank,” Connor explains. “That includes my shopping list. It’s always better to be safe than sorry.”

Hank snorts, but he takes one of the containers, and Connor counts that as a personal victory. As always, Hank chews the vegetables like it’s committed a crime against him.

Connor doesn’t know why it amuses him so much.

“But I’m serious, though, Connor,” Hank says, and his voice suddenly sombre.

Tilting his head, Connor asks. “Serious about what, Lieutenant?”

“Don’t…” Hank looks around, before lowering his voice. “Don’t dig yourself in too deep, okay? There’s eyes and ears everywhere. The no use playing the hero if you’ll end up dead afterwards.”

Hank looks desperate. In a way Connor hasn’t seen before.

“You’re not the first one to dig into Jericho,” Hank says. “But I can’t deny that you’re the most competent; the one who’ve dug the furthest. There’s a reason they’re not here to warn you of it themselves. Honestly, can’t even write them off as dead—their bodies were never found.”

Cataloguing each tic of Hank’s face, Connor realises that it’s all genuine. The desperate wariness in his eyes are genuine.

The things is, Connor’s ninety-eight percent sure Hank’s in the same boat as Jericho. Their trails are too clean, too savvy for someone in the precinct _ not _to be involved. Despite Hank’s grizzled and shoddy record the past years, he still remains one of the precinct’s best.

Fowler and Hank are close personal friends, and Hank told Connor this himself, evn if it did sound like Hank was getting his nails torn off. If Fowler and Hank were both on Jericho's payroll, then it would explain why Jericho seems to disappear in any crime scene. 

But he’s past the matter of wondering why and how someone like Hank could fall in with the likes of Jericho. He has it all planned out instead—keep looking forward and work out what needs to be done so they come out of this whole ordeal with both of their heads attached.

It’s getting more and more impossible as the days go by. Not that Connor would admit it. Whatever Markus decides to throw at Connor, he can handle it.

This is just another personal mission, and Connor always accomplishes his missions. 

“I would never deprive Sumo of a walking buddy if I can help it,” Connor tells him gently. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I know what I’m doing.”

* * *

And he does know what he’s doing, up until Markus sends his second-in-command knocking on his door as he’s readying himself for work.

“Call in sick,” North, says in that no-nonsense voice of hers, leaning on his door frame. “Markus wants to see you.”

They skipped over introductions. It’s a bit redundant at this point.

North is every bit as beautiful and terrifying as the stories paint her. Her eyes are cold, and her voice firm. Chances are, she’s not actually here alone, and Markus already has a sniper targeted at him.

He toys with the idea of snapping her neck, right here and now, and using her body as cover. He could do it; he’s bigger, faster, more powerful and more skilled, not that she isn’t in her own right, but that’s as far as he goes. He has no idea where the sniper is trained at him. There’s no use trying to run from a bullet.

“No funny business, okay?” she says, straightening up. “We’re all fond of Sumo here.”

Connor stiffens.

A chill settles into his body.

“Give me a minute,” he says.

* * *

The reception is more welcoming than he expected, although Connor wonders why they didn’t confiscate his gun before leaving him alone in a room with their boss. They’re putting a lot of trust in Connor not to shoot Markus and off himself, but then, that’s what the reminder of Hank and Sumo are there for.

Markus’s office is modern and pristine, while still exuding the illusion of cosiness. A lot less glass than what modern architecture is fond of, but that’s probably a necessary sacrifice in the business. The Manfreds are private people, and their habitual spaces reflect that.

The theory of facing Markus Manfred is much more different than the practical. He’s dressed similarly to people at the precinct; a white blouse rolled up to his elbows, a tie round his neck, clean pressed trousers and a holster strapped around his chest—an empty holster, Connor notes.

Here is a man who wields power and charisma as easily as his smile, and he stares at Connor like he’s a frog ready for dissection.

Connor stares back. He doesn’t attempt conversation. It was very clear, from the moment North closed the door, that Markus controls when meetings occur and when speaking begins.

The silence stretches, and Connor keeps himself from fidgeting.

“You’re a curious case, Connor,” Markus says. “Determined, ruthless, and honest. What’s someone like you doing in the Detroit Police Department?”

Markus lists them as if they’re rare and spare qualities. Connor debates not answering the question, but he’s on enemy turf. He’s not going to risk becoming nothing more than a faded memory.

Connor settles on something simple. “I wanted to protect people,” Connor says.

Markus hums. “Then let me ask again; what’s someone like you doing in the Detroit Police Department?”

Connor tilts his head. “You think I should work for you.”

“We’re doing good things for the people of Detroit,” Markus points out. “Fowler will be running for commissioner in a couple of years. That leaves an empty spot in your precinct.”

“Did he tell you that himself?”

“He will, eventually,” Markus says, his eyes crinkling. “But you see now, why I brought you here.”

“You’re not even denying your involvement with Jericho,” Connor points out slowly.

“Nor have I confirmed it,” Markus says. “But it’s a waste of time to beat around the bush. I thought we’d get right down to business. “

A part of him wants to ask why Markus hadn’t asked Hank, but they both know that Hank doesn’t have the drive. Hank lost his drive around the time he lost his son. “You have to understand why I’m declining,” Connor says, leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t actually,” Markus says, leaning forward and folding his hands in front of his face. “You’re one of us. You saw how people like Zlatko can throw money at a problem until it disappears. So, you shot him straight between the eyes instead of forfeiting him into the judicial system. Not very lawful of you, is it?”

Connor considers his words. “It was self-defence,” he says carefully, and leans forward again, refusing to give Marcus the illusion of him being cowed.

Markus doesn’t move back. “It’s your word against a dead man’s,” he says. “Due to a power-box conveniently short-circuiting the moment he brought you into his house.”

“He wanted to turn me into one of his experiment subjects.”

“That he did,” Markus agrees. He looks at Connor for a long moment, before he walks forward. He leans on his table, folding his arms. The simple act draws Connor’s attention to Markus’s corded forearms, highlighted by how his sleeves are folded by the elbow. He’s close enough that Connor’s eyes naturally lands on his thighs, and he has to crane his neck up to meet Markus’s curious gaze.

Markus’s cologne tickles his nose. He refrains from inhaling a deep breath even as his throat dries.

Proximity can be another intimidation tactic.

This is just another intimidation tactic.

Markus taps his foot. The tip of his shoe brushes against the bottom of Connor’s trousers .“Let me revise that then: determined, ruthless, not-quite-so-honest, but undoubtedly _ righteous. _ I’ll be real with you, Connor, the more I find out about you, the more appealing you become.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Connor says. “But all the drug trafficking, and money laundering…”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Markus tells him.

Connor’s frown dips even lower.

“Connor,” Markus says, exasperated. “You murdered someone point-blank, without a single flinch, and that is where you draw the line?”

He immediately assumes that Connor feels no guilt or regret at the shooting for killing Zlatko. It’s unnerving that he’s completely right, even if he is imposing his own justified feelings on Connor.

“How many have you killed before Zlatko?”

“None.”

Markus scoffs. “That’s a lie. Try again.”

Connor stays silent, but he doesn’t look away from the challenge in Markus’s gaze.

Sighing, Markus places both hands on the table and rights himself. “There is nothing I can say? To tempt you into this offer?”

“No,” Connor says.

“And if Fowler were to find out about your previous victims.”

“There would be nothing to find,” Connor says simply.

“That’s what I like about you, Connor.” Markus says, approvingly. “Your unfailing confidence and reckless loyalty. So confident in your own abilities that you’re willing to put yourself on the line. Isn't it quite unfortunate that Hank’s not as thorough as you are. He’s got a head for numbers, sure, but he’s got a terrible hand for cards. It only got worse when Cole died.”

There it is. Connor closes his eyes. “Can’t say that I didn’t see this coming.”

“Leverage, love,” the corners of Markus’ mouth quirk up, “Always good to have in any relationship.”

Connor opens his eyes slowly. “Hank never had a clue how much the odds were stacked against him, did he?” 

There’s that small smile again, paired with his half-lidded eyes. Different from the smiles he pulls out in front of a camera, causing dread to uncurl in his belly.

“I can have him dead, or I can have him locked away for life,” Markus says blithely. “I can have his house repossessed, or I can have him framed for murder, theft, property damage, labour racketeering, whatever suits my fancy. I can have all these wonderful things happen to him… or you can take your gun and place it…” Markus nods down to his empty holster. “There.”

Connor could still shoot Markus, and that would be the end of him. That would probably be the end of Connor himself, along with Hank and Sumo. Still, he toys with the idea, even as his hand slips his gun out without a second thought.

Sliding it into Markus’s holster brings him too close to Markus. Connor towers over him, with the way Markus leans on his desk, but he doesn’t feel any victory when he looks down and find Markus’s eyes watching him.

Connor starts moving to sit down.

“Stop.”

He pauses, their eyes not breaking contact.

“Stay,” Markus says. “Take off your tie.”

Air lodges in his chest. Markus is still staring at him, his eyes asking the question for him.

_ How far are you willing to go, Connor? _

It terrifies Connor that he doesn’t know the answer.

“Connor,” Markus warns softly. “Take off your tie. I won’t ask again.”

“You never asked in the first place,” Connor points out, but his hands come up to his collar, undoing the knot and slipping it off fully.

“Hm,” Markus says. “I haven’t decided what I wanted to do with that yet. Drape it around my neck.”

Connor leans forward and does exactly that. He ignores how his cheeks are flushed at the heat Markus is radiating, and he ignores the trust Markus is placing in him by expecting Connor to not choke him with the tie.

Instead of pulling his hands back, he rests them on Markus’s shoulder, since Markus hasn’t said otherwise. A pleased expression bursts on Markus’s face, and it only makes Connor more aware of his heartbeat, drumming in his ear.

Connor can feel eyes roaming on his face.

“You’re enjoying this,” Markus says, voice full of awe.

“I…” Connor finally breaks their stare, looking behind Markus. “I’m not.” He can see that half-lidded expression overtake Markus’ face again.

“You are.”

For the first time since he’s entered the room and met the elusive man himself, Markus touches him. Connor can imagine the shape of his hands as he uncurls his fingers and tests both hands on his hips, fingers tapping a leisurely rhythm.

They gravitate closer and closer, and Connor wonder how dread could merge itself with arousal so thoroughly that it becomes indistinguishable.

It’s clear that Markus is aiming for his lips, but as he draws in, Connor turns away, biting his own. He gets a nip on his jaw in retaliation.

“Strike one, Connor,” Markus says.

He can feel the words against his skin, and Connor doesn’t know why it sends a burst of blind panic tangled with heat down his crotch. He tilts his head slightly, and the corner of his mouth teases Markus's lips for a tempting second, but Connor jerks his head away, however, before their lips can fully meet.

Markus hands travels all the way to the swell of his ass, clutching and kneading the flesh. He pulls Connor closer and bites down on his neck, making Connor gasp quietly. “Strike two,” he says, bringing Connor closer.

Connor debates if he should risk seeing what happens at strike three.

He turns his head and catches Markus’s lips in a kiss.

The kiss starts off slow and quiet, testing each other at the surface. It quickly grows wet, languorous, with tongues dancing and teeth grazing each other. Markus pushes forward, and Connor—Connor _ lets _him—and he basks in the glory of doing so.

In a matter of just meeting each other, Markus is learning him in a way nobody else ever has. His hands start alternating between clutching and unclutching Markus’s shirt.

Markus pulls away. “We’re going to need to do something about your hands.”

Connor gulps, forcibly spreading his hand on Markus’s shoulder.

* * *

_ How far are you willing to go, Connor? _

Connor still doesn’t know the answer fully, but as of now, it’s as far as getting naked and bending over Markus’s desk with his tie stuffed into his mouth.

Needing to do something about his hands ended up being a simple binding with zip ties around his wrist. He can easily break out of them, but he won’t. It’s another test from Markus—another way of showing his obedience. Struggle all you want, but don’t break the zip ties, or else that’s another strike on Connor’s record.

Obedience. Like making him strip himself, to see how far his blush travels. Making him lock the door. Keeping his mouth open as Markus bunches his tie inside his mouth.

Markus tests him, again, and again, and at some point, Connor forgot what he’s trying to prove.

Markus has been working Connor with his fingers for—lord knows how long. The lube has warmed a long time ago, and Connor much longer before that. Markus has figured him out; it’s variation and contrast which Connor responds to the most. A particular sharp jab of his fingers, followed by a caress on his outer hip. His nails scratching on Connor’s inner thigh, while two fingers are pumping in long, slow strokes. Those are the kind of touches which get Connor shuddering.

Then Markus suddenly withdraws, and Connor is left feeling hollow, empty, and cold.

“Markus?” Connor mumbles through his gag. His erection is strains for attention.

Something solid presses against his entrance. It's thick, hard, and cold; too cold to be Markus's fingers.

Connor looks, but Markus blocks his view by leaning over, pressing him back down with one hand.

"I wish you could see," Markus says. "I wish you could see how beautiful you are. All pink and wrinkled, unfurling around the tip of your gun."

With his words fluttering hot on the back of Connor's ear, Markus pushes in.

Wide and unforgiving, the gun stretches and drags inside him, sending jolts of pleasure from the friction and stings of pain from the stretching. Every inch that pushes past his rim feels like too much, as if Connor's too overstuffed and he can't take any more, but Markus doesn't relent.

One hand rests itself on Connor's neck. His thumb rubs small circles into his skin while he whispers murmurs of encouragement.

God, Connor's pathetic. He breathes in the approval, letting it sink into the deepest layer of his skin. Despite his predicament, Connor falls into the warm lulling cadence of Markus's voice.

Around him, the world blurs, condensing down to the points of contact where Marks touches his skin. His cock is hard and leaking. Markus slides the whole barrel in fully, and Connor can feel all the way up to his sternum.

Markus brushes one fond hand down Connor's back. He thumbs the bumps on Connor’s spine, peppering them with attention. “Beautiful,” he whispers. “Beautiful, brave, and so very _ brilliant, _you are, Connor.”

A loud click echoes in the room. Connor jolts from his haze. Panic seizes his throat. He clenches down, and the reminder of the hard metal inside his ass only heightens his fear.

The hand on the back of his head tangles itself in his hair. "Go on," Markus says. "Fuck yourself on this gun. Not too fast though. Don't want my finger to suddenly slip, don't you?"

Markus wouldn’t. He’s ruthless, but he’s not cruel—he _ wouldn’t— _

Connor doesn’t know that, does he?

Slowly, his chest shaking and breathing ragged, Connor fucks himself on the gun. The more he moves, the more sounds spill from his lips. He can feel ridges brushing up against his walls, and the muzzle rubbing against his prostate, sending bone deep pleasure thrumming through his body.

It’s not long before his legs start to shake, because it’s _ good— _ it’s so, so good—but it’s not _ enough _. He’s overheated; his skin is buzzing and his muscles tiring. He wants—a reprieve. He needs release. He’s a dam of sensations about to burst and he needs Markus to be the one who lets the waves crash through.

Connor groans behind his tie.

“What was that?” Markus asks. He tilts the muzzle, and it bumps against his sweet spot, buckling his knees.

Connor groans louder, rolling his hips forward, trying to ease the pressure.

Markus chuckles. “Not today, Connor.” The muzzle chases after Connor, the tip rubbing against his prostate.

_ Please, please, please, please— _

“So good to me,” Markus says softly. He angles the barrel again, playing with the stretch of Connor’s rim. His other hand untangles itself from his hair, pinching the meat of his butt cheeks.

The heat scorches him, and the stretch is almost painful. He can feel himself twitching and squeezing as Markus swirls the gun. Every time Markus brushes against his prostate, Connor aches to scramble up the desk, but his hands are still tied, so all he does is jolt forward with a whimper.

“Not yet, though,” Markus says. “Bear down for me, love.”

Connor doesn’t even think about it. He bears down, his muscles shaking from tightening itself so suddenly. He can feel Markus slide the barrel out, the hard ridges dragging outwards, the hard, overwhelming pressure lessening until Connor is left with nothing but a sudden feeling of emptiness.

He keens as he feels Markus’s hand kneads his butt cheeks. The irony doesn’t escape him, even through the haze of lust, that after all the time he’s trying to push himself away from Markus, he’s finally pushing back, seeking the touch that will finally push him over the edge.

Markus pulls him by his thighs. Connor wants to squirm away, but Markus’s hands are solid anchors holding him still. He alternates between kisses and sharp nips on his cheeks, travelling from the swell of his ass into his crack. He takes mouthfuls of flesh wherever he goes, and he bites down gently, drawing a moan, before soothing them with his tongue.

Connor feels so helpless. It’s heady and heavy, so thoroughly entwined with his arousal and pleasure that Connor doesn’t know where one ends and one begins. He’s never felt so rightly owned—as if this spot is where he belongs_; _as nothing but a whimpering hole for Markus to play with.

Hot air puffs against his hole, and he can feel his rim clench in response. His back arches as something wet and textured—the tip of Markus’s tongue, Connor realises, teases at his rim and coaxes him open. Connor bears down on instinct, and Markus takes that as a cue to unleash himself—dipping in and out, swirling it against his walls, mouthing and stretching the edges of his rim.

Time slips away him—like he’s tripped on ice. He loses track of himself, of his body, of his limbs, of where they’re straining and pulling. Markus hands are probably the only thing keeping him upright as Markus fucks him forward. His mind is addled, and he’s barely aware of the keening noises he’s been making on top of the obscene slurping that echoes around the office.

“Markus,” Connor tries to mumble. “Markus, _ please—Markus.” _

It’s a wonder he understands what Connor is saying, but it must come through in the pitch of his begging. Spreading his hand, Markus digs his fingers in response. He doesn’t stop his licking though.

Connor whines louder through his gag. “_ Markus _.”

His cock is hard and throbbing, leaking with precome. It _ aches _for touch—Connor aches for anything Markus is willing to give, right now. If Markus doesn’t touch his cock, Connor might just explode, and not in the way that matters.

As if Markus finally heard his prayers, one hand finally thumbs the slit of his cock. Connor shudders as Markus traces his shaft lightly with his nails until—

Markus squeezes his fist.

His eyes roll to the back of his head. Waves and waves of white hot pleasure wracks through his body, and he howls over his tie. His come splatters on the table and down his leg. His muscles string themselves, tight as a bow, for what seems like forever, before the waves die down from their peak and his legs shakes from the recoil.

Connor’s a mess. He’s sticky, he’s hot, and his whole body feels raw, but it’s _ so, so good. _Even the air brushing his skin feels too much as he’s coming down from his high. He’s liquid human, melting into goo. He’s sure that his skin is plastered onto the table, and it feels like it’ll take more than glue solvent for him to be moved.

But Connor soon realises that Markus hasn’t stopped. There’s still something wet, and slick, and warm thrusting against his walls. The pleasure pinches at his nerves. It nips instead of making it zing. It stings, when before his muscles had been singing.

_ Too much. _ Connor whimpers. 

It’s all becoming a little too much.

He wiggles, trying to squirm away, clenching down by reflex. Markus doesn’t let him. He forces his tongue in, slapping Connor’s butt hard enough to leave a red handprint over the marks from his playful mouthing earlier. He yanks Connor back in, sinking his nails into Connor’s thighs, keeping him in place.

_ It’s so good, _Connor sobs in his head. It’s too much on his frayed nerves, but it’s _ so good— _and he can’t decide if it hurts too much or if it doesn’t and—he can’t—he can’t—

Tears well up in his eyes, and he struggles to buck his hips away from Markus’s tongue. It’s a futile; Markus’s touch and the relentless pleasure he brings are only a breath away from him.

His body is on fire, desire warring on his skin. Connor wants more of it, as much as he wants it to stop. He’d give Markus anything for a moment of relief.

Markus is infamous for making anyone talk. Connor is now one of many on the long list. But if this one of his many skills of interrogation, then Connor never stood a chance in the first place.

A whine escapes his lips as his cock starts to pulse again. He manages to spit a bit of his tie out, enough for his own tongue to peak through. Working the tie out of his mouth, Connor breathes a shaky breath in.

“Markus,” Connor says. “Markus, please… let me… I need a break….”

Markus thrusts his tongue in sharply twice in reply.

Connor surges forward, gasping. “_ Ah,” _he says. “I can’t take any more.”

Markus pulls out, and Connor thinks that it’s finally happening—Markus is finally letting him rest—but Markus just dances the tip of his tongue, right at the puckered edges of his rim.

_ For me, _ he can hear Markus say. _ Just a little bit more for me. _

“For you,” Connor mumbles, pressing his cheeks onto the cool wood of his desk. “Anything for you, Markus.”

Connor’s words acts as a lit match meeting a puddle of fuel, Markus picks up his pace. He fucks him with vigorous long strokes of his tongue. His stamina is monstrous. If it’s Markus’s plan to fuck Connor until he passes out, then he’s more than halfway there. Connor feels like he’s been dangled over the edge for forever.

Boneless and sensitive as he is, Connor can do nothing but whimper. The second wave of pleasure crests over, rising and rising, threatening to overtop his fragile, tender walls.

Markus drags his tongue of Connor’s asshole, but he never strays too far. He lavishes the spot with long brushes of his tongue. Then he spreads both cheeks open, and Connor can feel his heavy gaze on him. Connor squeezes his hole, and Markus chuckles, his warm laugh dripping into Connor’s bones.

Markus turns his attention back to the spot he was adorning with attention before. He pecks it with a kiss, and Connor can feel the edge of his lips fluitter on the corner or his swollen hole.

He sinks in his teeth gently.

Connor comes again, sobbing and shaking with over-stimulation. He doesn’t know how long the tremors last. It feels like forever. In reality, it couldn’t be more than a couple of seconds.

His thoughts drift, the edges dimming into a soft fuzz. His body is on the table, but his mind views things through sticky molasses. His world focuses down to only him and Markus. He can feel a towel wipe down his leg and his thigh. Markus is whispering awed encouragements while he’s cleaning Connor up, but what Connor wants right now, more than anything in the world, is to pass out to next week. Preferably with his face buried in the crook of Markus’s neck.

Markus would smell great, Connor bets, warm, musky and comforting, with lingering traces of his cologne. His skin would be salty and tasty as Connor nibbles at the junction of his neck. What Connor would give to press himself against Markus—until they’re skin to skin and breathing each other’s air.

Not that he has anything left to offer. It feels like he’s given Markus his all.

Connor doesn’t realise he’s spoken his wish out loud until Markus answers. One hand brushes the damp strands of his hair back, nails lightly scratching his scalp.

“I will, baby,” Markus soothes. “I will hold you soon. I just need you to do one more thing for me.”

Connor wants to whine, but he’s too tired to even do that.

There’s a sound of a tube uncapping, and something cold and wet land on his poor, abused asshole—more lube? Surely not. Connor has already come twice and he doesn’t know how he’s still conscious right now.

Markus spreads the lube with his thumb. He massages it in, before dipping his thumb into Connor’s hole and rubbing it in and out, in and out. Sighing, Connor sinks into the rhythm, his body is starting to feel hollow from being so empty.

Something round nudges against his opening. It’s still not Markus’s cock; it doesn’t feel like skin, and it’s much too small. It slips past Connor’s rim, but Connor can still feeling something trailing out of his hole. He unplasters his cheek from table and tries to look back.

Markus slaps his ass, and Connor yelps. “Eyes forward,” Markus says. “And I don’t want you to make any noises that are too loud. Understand?” He gives him another smack, seemingly transfixed with how Connor’s ass cheek jiggles from the impact.

Connor doesn’t lie to himself; he’s not gifted in the back department and chances are he never will be. But Markus seems to have no trouble finding flesh to pinch and hit and kiss to his leisure. He nods, however, and quickly redirects his stare forward.

Hands brush across his lower back. “Good boy,” Markus says. “Just a little bit more and I’ll let you rest on my lap.”

It’s indescribable, the pleasure which bubbles through his body from Markus’s approval. He can’t deny how messed up and twisted that is. Markus, the contradictorily kind mobster he’s been chasing day in and day out. Markus, who turned from the man he planned to throw into jail into the man who _ still won’t fuck him senseless with his cock _.

Markus, the man who’s asking Connor to keep going after stripping Connor raw and taking his pound’s worth in flesh.

“Markus,” Connor says, his voice thin and raspy. “I don’t think I can.”

“You can,” Markus says firmly. “For me, Connor.” He scratches his nails lightly on Connor’s back, down his thighs and up his sides.

Connor breathes in. “Okay,” he whispers. “I—okay.”

“Beautiful,” Markus murmurs to himself. “You’re beautiful like this.”

Markus gives one more appreciative scratch before something nudges against his rim. “Open up,” he says.

Connor feels like he has no control of his body any more, much less the tight muscle of his rim, but he pushes himself for Markus. Because Markus asked, and it doesn’t ever register within Connor that denying Markus is ever an option.

He bears down as Markus pushes the thing inside him—an anal bead, Connor figures, with each bead bigger than the one previous. They’re loose, bunching up and knocking against. Every time he shifts, one or two beads rubs against his walls, which in turn makes him want to squirm. It’s an endless cycle of slow-burning pleasure chewing him inside out.

“Good boy,” Markus praises, hands roaming around his body. “My very good boy.”

Connor so very much doesn’t want to disappoint.

The third bead finds more resistance than the others. His rim stretches, trying to accommodate its widest part, and Markus teases a grunt out of Connor as he holds the bead still for one second, two seconds, then three.

Connor knows better than to beg. He’d probably get nothing but a slap on his ass from it. The bead is in such a precarious position—Markus surely won’t like it if he squirms either. Chewing on his bottom lip, he focuses on his stinging lip, and not on how his far and tight his red, puffy hole is stretching. 

With a couple of soft taps on the bead, Markus lifts his hand away to spread Connor’s ass open. “Go on,” he says. “I want to see you do it.”

Connor blinks, hands fidgeting with his binds. “... wha…?”

“I know you’re hungry,” Markus says, squeezing his cheeks. “Work for it.”

He can’t possibly mean…?

Another squeeze. “Connor,” Markus warns.

Connor carefully contracts his muscles, working the bead in and out, careful in trying to suck the bead, instead of letting it pop out. As the soon as the bead gains enough traction, it’s swallowed by Connor’s rim, and Connor moans as it nestles in comfortably.

Markus kisses his lower back. “I knew you could do it.” Another kiss that leaves Connor shivering. “You’re such a good boy. You were made for me, Connor. You’re so perfect for me.”

He wants to preen into the touch so badly. Press up and bask in Markus’s appraisal. It’s like Markus already knows him—like Markus sees his struggle and acknowledges his determination in turn.

Markus brings up the fourth bead. He tugs on it, and Connor gives a sharp inhale when the bead jostle inside him. He begins to press it in like before, and he stops again when Connor stretches over the widest part.

Connor doesn’t even wait for his instructions. As soon as Markus takes both cheek in his hands, Connor has already started working it in. The bead slips excruciatingly slow, bigger and fuller than before, but within seconds his hole snaps shut around the string, twitching from the exertion.

Markus chuckles. “That seems a little too easy. We’ll have to make the next one a little more interesting, won’t we?”

Another tug. The bead brush against each other inside him, and Connor whimpers. His cock is already throbbing again, feeling like it’s about to burst.

That’s all he seems to do around Markus, Connor thinks. Whimper, whine, and beg like the needy creature he is.

“Last one, Connor,” Markus says, pressing the fifth bead up to his rim. “Make it a show for me, will you?”

Markus pushes, and it’s the biggest than anything Connor has ever stretched himself around. But instead of grasping Connor’s cheeks to sit back and watch, he keeps hold to the string.

Tapping on the bead, Markus asks, “Well?”

Connor wets his lips in anticipation. He works it in, but just as his hole is about to clench shut around the bead, Markus pulls on the string—

—the bead pops out.

“Ah, _ Markus!” _ Connor yelps.

“Again,” Markus orders. He pushes the bead back into Connor’s hole.

Connor’s head is whizzing, still drowning in sensation. He yelps again when Markus slaps his ass for his inattention.

“Connor,” Markus says, one hand going down to give his cock a warning squeeze. “Again.”

Connor ducks his head, wishing he could hide under his arms. He clenches down, and like before, his hole suck the bead in, but before it can completely shut, Markus pops the bead out again.

Another whine rises out of his chest.

Once more, the bead is nudging Connor’s hole open.

“Again,” Markus says.

Connor loses track how many times Markus plays with him like this, turning him into putty, drawing out cries that become more desperate as time goes on. At one point, Markus orders Connor to bear down on the fourth bead while pulling on the string, which Connor does, and instead of pulling it out once the bead has reached its halfway point, Markus pushes it in.

A sob almost breaks out from the pleasure. It’s toe-curling and intense.

He’s almost at the end of his ropes—he’s probably been at this point in what seemed like _ hours— _and he can’t take any more. He feels so full, so bursting, like he’s hit fever pitch and he’s delirious from all the pleasure.

The last bead nudges at his hole again, and Connor bears down instinctively. Taking pity on him, surprisingly, Markus pushes in, and it slides home with minimal fuss.

One hand strokes his hip, which had been rolling back and forth without him realising, in calm soothing motions. “Alright,” Markus says softly. “I think you deserve a little rest, don’t you?”

Rest? Connor scrunches his face incredulously.

_ Rest? _

He doesn’t want rest. He wants Markus to get him off!

Markus chuckles at his indignation. “Patience, love,” he says. “We have some things we need to discuss first.”

“Discuss?” Connor croaks.

“Yes. Discuss.”

Markus cleans him up, like before, careful not to touch his aching dick. His touch is almost reverent as he wipes Connor down and untie his wrist.

And it boggles Connor’s mind; the absolute contrast to all his rough handling from before. Then again, everything about Markus Manfred has been a mind boggling experience. Even though Connor has dove much deeper than he should have, he still craves to know more.

Markus maneuvers a boneless Connor on his lap, chest to chest, his legs sloppily thrown over the armrest of Markus’s chair. Connor’s dick rests against the tent of Markus’s crotch, and Connor is suddenly aware that Markus hasn’t found release even once throughout the whole ordeal.

Talk about a steel-will.

One of Markus’s hands comes down to brush the side of his leg, while the other rests on his back. Connor’s arms automatically wrap themselves around his neck.

For the first time in what feels like forever, their eyes finally meet.

Connor sketches each freckle into his memory. He traces the curve of Markus’s lips as it curls into a smile. 

“Hi,” Markus says.

Connor kisses him.

He doesn’t want to think about the implications, only the right angle to tilt his head, the taste of lube still lingering in Markus’s mouth, and the slick softness of Markus’s lips as he kisses back. Markus yields where he pushes, he soothes where Connor’s demanding. It’s a freedom Connor has never known. His body is still pulsing—it feels like his heart is beating Markus’s name over and over.

Markus is the one to pull apart, Connor trailing his lips after him.

“Tell me how you found out,” Markus pants out. “I want to know _ everything.” _

It already feels like he knows everything. Connor tells him exactly that.

Markus nips at his bottom lip. “Connor,” he warns. The hand brushing his thigh goes to trace Connor’s undoubtedly puffy rim. He hooks the finger onto the loop, teasing a tug on his anal bead.

His eyes are captivating as they are on picture. “I…” Connor says, licking his lips. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

Markus one eyebrow up in a challenge. He yanks on the string.

The last bead pops out, and pleasure mixed with pain rams up Connor’s spine. Connor ducks his head and moans into the junction of Markus’s neck, rutting his hips against Markus’s body.

Markus turns his head sideways to kiss the nearest skin available. “You were saying?”

“Peptide Mass Fingerprinting, and paint pigments,” Connor mumbles against Markus’s shoulder. “In each painting, you always used one pigment, and exactly one, which was developed decades after the supposed forgery.”

“Perceptive of you,” Markus says. “But art forgeries are common in the industry, and I was very careful with their provenance. I want to know _ how _ you knew it was _ me _who painted them.”

Markus pushes the anal bead partially in, and he twists it like a steering wheel. That, combined with the intense way he’s staring at Connor and the possessive hand he spreads over his lower back, is scattering his thoughts left and right.

“I don’t know,” Connor admits, then he gasps when Markus taps the bead in. “_ Ah— _It looked like yours—like the ones in your gallery.”

“That’s why you visited, of course.” Markus doesn't sound angry. Instead, he sounds contemplative. “I’m careful with my brush technique,” he says, while he once again traces the tip of his finger around Connor’s hole. “Carl said my technique is impeccable in any era.”

“I have no reasonable explanation,” Connor says. “It just felt like one of yours.”

“Interesting,” Markus says, and there’s that dangerous tone in his voice again—the approval which Connor craves so much.

The hand on his back strokes its way up through his hair, and if Connor were a cat, he’d be purring from the contact. He weaves his hand through Connor’s hair and tugs on it gently, directing Connor’s gaze into his own.

“Here is what is going to happen,” Markus says. “I’m giving you until tonight to make your decision. Either you wash your hands off this whole thing, and I’ll be gracious enough to let you.”

Connor doubts it—on account of _ either _ of them letting _ anything _ go—but he holds in his breath. “Or?”

“Or you come to my house,” Markus says, his voice trickling down his senses like warm honey. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll let you take care of _ me. _And that’s it. That’s us set for the future.”

_ All of you, _ he’s saying, with his intense stare and hands which claims everywhere it roams. _ I want all of you. Your mind, your body, your heart, your soul. _

_ Be mine. _

Connor runs his tongue on the front of his teeth. The blackmail is still there; it’s front and centre, rearing its ugly head, but the offer strikes right to his core, strumming every fibre of his being and causing his soul to _ sing_. “What about Hank?” he asks. “Will you still call him up? He can still be useful to you.”

Markus tightens the hand on his hair, a hard look sobering his face. “You don’t worry about Hank. Whatever happens to him will be his own doing.”

“I care about him, Markus,” Connor says, running his hand down Markus’s chest. “I can’t just leave him to hang out to dry.”

Markus pulls on the loop until a bead pops out. Connor gasps, buckling forward and plastering their chest together. 

He is sensing a pattern here.

Marcus scoffs. “God forbid an adult suffer the consequences he dug for himself.”

Connor hesitates, before leaning forwards and nibbling his way up Markus’s neck. “Are you not the one who’s quite fond of second chances?”

Markus inhales. His eyes flicker up and down Connor’s face. “Have you decided already?”

Connor can’t count all the different ways this is fucked up. How _ he _ fucked up by coming here and thinking that he held all the cards, and how fucked up it is that he already knew his answer the minute Markus brought up the offer.

_ Yes. _

“Maybe,” Connor says, swallowing and tilting his chin up “But I’d like to take the evening to decide, please.”

“Please,” Markus echoes him. He considers Connor for a couple of seconds, before a smile breaks out. “You’re wasted on the DPD, you do know that, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re too earnest.” Markus tucks his damp fringe back into his face. “Too nice. What’s a good boy like you doing with a bunch of crooks like them?”

Oh god, there are those words again, lighting his senses up like a firework. “And the irony’s not lost on you?” Connor asks.

A small smile ticks up on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Markus looks at his eyes drinking the sight before him. “But come back tonight and I’ll tell you all about it.”

* * *

Markus tells him to get up and get dressed, and Connor almost asks if he’s planning to do anything about their raging hard-ons or the beads that are wreaking havoc inside of him, but Connor already found his answer from Markus’s look.

If he wants it taken care of, he knows where to find Markus.

Connor doesn’t understand what about him Markus finds so_ fascinating,_ but he can’t seem to keep his hands away from him. Markus sits in his chair while Connor dresses himself, taking all of two seconds before beckoning Connor over.

Markus zips his pants up, and the sound is more obscene than when Connor took them off earlier. Every button is lovingly adorned by Markus’s thumb, and he buckles Connor’s belt as if he was coaxing a timid creature forward. 

He doesn’t resist dipping a kiss on Connor’s lower abdomen. He rests his chin on Connor’s stomach, and he watches with rapture as Connor slowly buttons his shirt up with shaky hands, kissing any of his knuckles that happens to venture close.

He starts reaching for his damp tie, but Markus stops him.

“Surely, you’re not going to wear that,” Markus says, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

The absolute indignation of his tone reminds Connor of Sumo whenever Connor gives him a bath.

Connor shrugs. “It’s my tie.”

Markus shakes his head, before standing up. Connor watches, with his throat drying, as Markus’s strong, sturdy hands undoes his tie and loops it around Connor’s neck.

Markus’s thumb brushes over his adam’s apple. “Much better,” he says.

Connor’s hand comes up to stop him. “Markus, I can’t,” he says. “This tie has to be worth more than everything I own _ combined_.”

“All the more reason you should wear it,” Markus says. “You deserve something as nice as you are.”

Then he begins doing Connor’s tie in a fastidious and gentle manner. Indulgent, as if he’s treating himself with the act more than he’s treating Connor.

Connor doesn’t need to ask how Markus knows his favourite tie knot—the half-Windsor, suitable for leaner men with thinner necks—probably through measures as obsessive as Connor had used. Another thread weaving them closer, Connor notes.

Connor still feels full, even though the beads are not as warm or as intimate as a dick inside of him. They click with every abrupt movement, bunching and rubbing each other to drive him mad.

Both constant and physical reminders of Markus’s presence in his life.

_ He can still walk away, _ Connor thinks. _ Markus is giving him a choice. He can pretend this never happened. _

Markus slides up the knot to rest at the bottom of his throat. He straightens Connor’s collars. “There,” he says, his voice smug and approving. “You’re all ready to go.”

They’re close enough that their breathes are mingling. Connor savours the warmth fluttering over his skin. He leans in closer.

Who is he kidding?

Walking away from Markus was never an option.

* * *

Connor’s answering machine beeps in his absence.

“Hey, kid,” Hank’s gruff voice plays through. “Heard you called in sick, and well, that’s what you get for overworking yourself. It’s a nasty habit, you hear me? No matter how much Fowler demands it out of you. You can always tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine, even though you’re too fucking polite for that. Hell, I’ll help you. This is the one area I don’t mind doing all the work for you, imagine that?”

Hank pauses and laughs at his own questionable joke. “I dropped by your house today,” he says. “But I didn’t see your car, so I just left the food out front. Hope no fucker comes and messes with it. Haven’t cooked in a while, but it should be edible. Hopefully. And healthy. I even put in shit like broccoli and kale and all that. Everyone’s crazy about kale these days, aren’t they? It's Super Food apparently, so I figured you might like it. And I’m rambling to myself, Jesus Christ—”

There’s a brief interlude where Hank mutters a string of inaudible things over the recording.

“Anyway,” he says louder. “Get lots of rest, drink lots of water, and eat a whole bunch of good stuff. If you don’t die from food poisoning, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. I don't what possessed me..... I swear I'm a fluff writer!!!!
> 
> Thank you so much for Magic who drew [this amazing art here hnnnnnnnngh](https://twitter.com/Megickitt/status/1170186913233244162?s=09) please support her beautiful artwork over on twitter!
> 
> .....there could possibly be a sequel idk hehe.....
> 
> A round of applause:  
\- [feriswheel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feriswheel/)  
\- [ Mimoru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimoru/)  
\- [peixe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peixe/)  
\- [ joyeuseful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyeuseful/pseuds/joyeuseful)  
\- [ Magic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MahoShoujoEren/)  
\- [Zalein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zalein)  
\- [ Sharn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smiley_anon)  
for all the cheerleading. Once again, I love you all so much. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!


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